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And here my fimile almost tript,

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Yet grant a word by way of poftfcript.
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing:

Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;

In which all modern bards agree,

Being each as great a thief as he :

But ev'n this deity's existence,

Shall lend my fimile assistance.

Our modern bards! why what a pox

Are they but fenfelefs ftones and blocks?

бо

A DESCRIPTION of an AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.

W

HERE the Red Lion ftaring o'er the way,
Invites each paffing ftranger that can pay;

Where Calvert's butt, and Parfon's black champaign,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;
There in a lonely room, from bailiffs fnug;
The Mufe found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;
A window patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly fhew'd the ftate in which he lay;
The fanded floor that grits beneath the tread,
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread :
The royal game of goofe was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, fram'd with lifting, found a place,
And brave prince William fhew'd his lamp-black face;
The morn was cold, he views with keen defire

The rufty grate unconscious of a fire:

With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor'd,
And five crack'd tea cups drefs'd the chimney board;
A night cap deck'd his brows instead of bay;
A cap by night-a ftocking all the day!

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Appeared in that Paper, in JUNE, 1767.

SIR,

As there is nothing I dislike so much as news-paper

controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concife as poffible in informing a correfpondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one; and I think fo ftill. I faid, I was told by the bookfeller that it was then first published; but in that, it feems, I was mifinformed, and my reading was not extenfive enough to fet me right.

Another correfpondent of yours accufes me of having taken a ballad, I publifhed fome time ago, from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great refemblance between the two pieces in queftion.If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy, fome years ago; and he (as we both confidered these things as trifles at beft) told me, with his

* The Friar of Orders Gray,Reliq. of Anc, Poetry, vol. 3. p. 243.

ufual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may fo call it, and I highly approved it.— Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing: and, were it not for the bufy difpofition of fome of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature.

I ain, SIR,

Yours, &c.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE

HER MIT.

A BALL A D.

"TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,

"And guide my lonely way,

"To where yon taper cheers the vale,
"With hospitable ray.

"For here forlorn and loft I tread,
"With fainting fteps and flow;
"Where wilds immeafurably spread,
"Seem length'ning as I go."

"Forbear, my fon," the Hermit cries,
"To tempt the dang'rous gloom;
"For yonder faithlefs phantom flies
"To lure thee to thy doom.

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"Then turn to-night, and freely share

"Whate'er my cell beftows;

My.rufhy couch and frugal fare,

"My bleffing and repose.

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"No flocks that range the valley free,

"To flaughter I condemn :

"Taught by that power that pities me,

"I learn to pity them:

"But from the mountain's graffy fide "A guiltless feast I bring;

"A fcrip with herbs and fruits fupply'd, "And water, from the spring.

"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

"All earth-born cares are wrong: "Man wants but little here below, "Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heav'n defcends,

His gentle accents fell:

The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obfcure

The lonely manfion lay;

A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,
And strangers led aftray.

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No ftores beneath its humble thatch

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Requir'd a master's care;

The wicket op'ning with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now when bufy crowds retire
To take their evening reft,
The Hermit trimm'a his little fire,
And cheer'd his penfive gueft:

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